Heirlooms.

It is audacious to think any one of the objects I have loved, polished and protected over the years might be considered heirlooms to anyone else but me.


Just because I find something beautiful, or sentimental, does not insure it's value to others.


Everywhere I look, every surface I dust, every linen I press carries with it, significance.


I know the feeling of one man's treasure being another man's trash. Significance is weighty business.


Yet, I see the beauty, remember the time, love the giver.


I collect, I recollect. Nothing just sits around here. Nor is anything more precious than the pleasure derived by use.


If a dented rattle makes me smile...


or a silver lidded powder jar reminds me I am indeed quite grown up, who is to quibble?



On a day when I am missing my Mother I reach for something that was hers, close my eyes and hold it tight. I know what is true: These treasures of mine will be treasured by someone else because I am more mother than daughter.